


An Impossible Man

by emilycare



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell & Related Fandoms, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Angry Sex, Childermass is teh Sexy Hot, Enemies to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic, Masturbation, Nasty Kitten, Rivalry, Road Trips, Sex, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:53:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27585692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emilycare/pseuds/emilycare
Summary: Mr Henry Lascelles' goal in life is to be the man who makes Mr Gilbert Norrell the power behind magic in England. Next stop, the world. He's getting rid of his rivals to influence Norrell and he's hit on just the scheme to eliminate that low-born scarecrow, John Childermass. The man has a weakness..for other men. And the fact that Lascelles has the same proclivity just means that ruining Childermass' life and getting him away from Gilbert Norrell will be that much more fun if he takes care of things, personally.But then they head out for Raven Hall at Ravenscar and the whole world seems to have a very different notion of how this will go. Lascelles gets himself neck deep in trouble and who will have to sort it out? Childermass to the rescue. As usual.  Oh so sexy Childermass. Oops, did I say that out loud?
Relationships: John Childermass/Henry Lascelles
Comments: 30
Kudos: 6





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Slow_Burn_Sally](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slow_Burn_Sally/gifts).



> Happy Birthday to my beloved friend, collaborator, first reader and writing inspiration @Slow_Burn_Sally!!!! Hoping you have a wonderful day full of love, friends and smokin' hot smut as desired. You are an amazing person, and have made so many people happy in this fandom and many others. Thanks for being such a good friend, and know that I love you. 
> 
> Thank you for introducing me to the ridiculous, contentious, sexy-as-all-get-out ship that is Childerscelles. This one is all for you. <3<3<3
> 
> Please note updates to rating and tags as we go along.

Someone had to do it. That animal Childermass was impeding the course of English magic taking its proper place in the world. It was Lascelles’ duty to help propel his countrymen to rise to the true heights to which they could aspire. Childermass with his vile low ways was an anchor around the neck of the one who could lead them there: Mr Norrell. Lascelles would make sure that this stumbling block would be eliminated.

Mr Gilbert Norrell was the preeminent practical magician of his day. He was, arguably in Mr Henry Lascelles' ever so humble opinion, the most important man of his day. He was the man who would alter the very destiny of their great nation. 

Lascelles would lie abed nights with the works of Norrell’s hands in his mind’s eye. The ships of storm holding off the French. The eyes of the Miss Wintertowne opening once more upon the world. The endless well of knowledge that Mr Norrell’s library represented. Once properly focused, the secrets held within those books could lay open the world to the English. What power could stand against them with the very veins of the earth laid bare to their hands? With Lascelles' guidance, Mr Norrell could tap that knowledge. Together they could sip from this spring and change the foundations not only of their countrymen’s understanding of magic, but the bastions of power within the world order.

If only he could get a few irritants out of the way. 

The first obstacle was gone now: Drawlight. That charlatan had suckled at the teat of Norrell’s influence like a child, and had come up with equally puerile schemes. Cheating people out of their money on the promise of connections with Mr’s Norrell and Strange. Initially, Lascelles had been slightly impressed that Drawlight was able to impersonate Strange through correspondence. That level of brazen impudence couldn’t help but inspire admiration. 

But the very short-sightedness of the venture boggled the mind. Drawlight was dealing with men who could ravage the earth and travel between worlds through mirrors. For how long did he think he could deceive them with this farce of a scheme? And when the truth came to light, it was a trivial matter to topple his house of cards into ruin. 

Lascelles held nothing but contempt for Drawlight now. Falling into the clutches of debt was the fate of the weak. Its hold would, of course, grip the mind and narrow one’s focus to tricks and schemes unbecoming of a man of quality. 

Drawlight’s actions were based on desperation, making him a worthless ally and a contemptible enemy. However, the other who presented a barrier to Lascelles’ ambitions was nothing like Drawlight. Childermass was a much more formidable foe. 

Childermass appeared worthless, wretched and beneath notice. A servant, at best the puppet of a great man. Ratty, disheveled hair coiled beneath that omnipresent tattered, inconceivably unfashionable hat. The dirty, ragged nails. Those dung-black, impudent eyes which roamed with abandon where they were not welcome. That loathsome voice, befouled with low-born rustic timbre. 

Yet this..nothing, he had wormed his way into the center of important affairs countless times. Rushing about the countryside making inquiries into matters that were above him. Claiming access to knowledge he had no right to possess. Asserting authority where he had none. And of all things, having the gall to put on a pretense of selflessness and bravery. No one could be so philanthropic as to take a bullet for their master. Lascelles saw right through him. All of this was surely nothing but an elaborate contrivance to gain power. Power which was rightfully Lascelles'.

Yet, while Drawlight had been trivial to do away with, Childermass presented a greater challenge. Despite his low station, he had allies who were loyal to him. Though he was a figure of contempt by the standards of society, he had internal resources which he called up on with infuriating regularity that kept him free and independent. His mastery of the arts of magic were far beneath those of Gilbert, but Lascelles was sure he had pretentions to be the great man's peer. Or more. He had a dark magnetism to him. There were times when he pinned Lascelles with just his gaze, and Lascelles felt compelled to return that scrutiny. Who knows what bargain he had struck to gain these powers? Surely this was the secret of how he retained the attentions of such a good and worthy man as Mr Gilbert Norrell?

Lascelles would rescue Norrell, and England, from the clutches of Childermass. He had found the most apt venue for this purpose. Childermass had many flaws, but he had found one which could be exploited to exquisite purpose: the man’s attraction to members of his own sex. These practices were rife in the lower classes, part and parcel of their vulgar manners and bankrupt morals. 

It was, as it happened, a flaw which Lascelles shared. He too was an invert. And he was not alone in society. But among the nobler classes, these things were done but with great delicacy and discretion. In places of power, where silence was ensured by status and influence. 

None of these things were available to Childermass. He was a jumped-up member of the lower class. He had no friends with leverage, aside from Mr Norrell, to save him. Public embarrassment and unmasking would lead to social ostracization, perhaps imprisonment. This revelation would break his bonds with Mr Norrell and send him spiralling into perdition. 

He was vulnerable. All that was needed was a push in the right direction, and then for these actions to be uncovered. 

Lascelles spent long hours considering the best way for this to be accomplished. When could Childermass be approached? What temptation would he accede to? How could he be entrapped in an unmistakable state of compromise? 

Many individuals were considered for a temptor and discarded. Davies was too biddable. He would never be able to withstand the unholy force of Childermass’ will. Asquith was too simple. Childermass would see through his attempts at seduction in a moment. No, a firmer hand was needed. Someone with a spine and a mind able to counter the lowly cunning which Childermass wielded. The worst possible outcome would be for Childermass to turn the trap to his own advantage. No, he must be captured wholly. The seduction must be complete and utter. He must be laid bare and ravaged by the encounter. He must be mastered. He must be consumed. 

In the dark, wee hours of a cold December evening, Lascelles realized that there was only one person he could entrust with a task of this importance and complexity. The best and only agent was indeed, himself. With that realization, the details of the entrapment laid themselves out before his mind’s eye... 


	2. Chapter 2

In the frigid gleam of the winter moon’s light, Lascelles watched steam rise from his horse’s shaking withers. He tugged at his cloak to close the furred ruff tighter about his throat. He considered switching again which hand gripped the reins and tangled in the horse’s mane, but the dull throb of fatigue robbed him of the motivation to do so. 

They had been on the road for but a day, heading to Ravenscar on the coast of North Yorkshire. A letter of introduction was tucked into Lascelles’ pack along with a thick bundle of notes earmarked for the purchase of something called the Doleful Book of Harbottle. 

Norrell had been searching for this book for several years. There was a fair copy of its chapter on fairy workings in one of his most prized volumes. And it was mentioned repeatedly in several codices that Lascelles had been part of cataloging. Rumour had arisen of its presence in the library at Raven Hall in Ravenscar, hard alongside word that a bid had already been submitted for its purchase. 

Despite the fact that this was found out in the dead of winter, no time could be spared. They must make a case to its owner that there was only one proper destination for this book of power. Norrell gathered all the resources he could to make an offer that could not be refused. However, due to the hardships of travel expected, the Magician could not make the journey himself. He instead entrusted it to his two most faithful servants to acquire the book in his place. 

Lascelles remembered fondly the day he’d been charged with this task. The sincerity with which Mr Norrell had thanked him for taking it upon himself to travel all that way on his behalf. The heady pride he’d felt at having outsmarted Childermass, who had argued that he could travel best alone. And the skittering sparks of excitement in his belly at the prospect of completing his ambition of ridding himself of his hated rival for Mr Norrell’s attention. The isolation and deprivations of this journey offered the perfect opportunity to create a snare for Childermass. For Lascelles to trap him through his own weaknesses and base urges. To bring the authority of law down upon his head. 

However, at this moment in time, every muscle in his body ached. He longed to be off the road, somewhere fire-warmed, with a soft bed, deep quaff of beer and toothsome midnight snack in his near future. So far this trip to destroy Childermass had done no better than bringing Lascelles himself far too close to removal from this world. Even worse, he now owed his continued safety to none other than the man he had set out to ruin. 

The horse beneath him champed and rubbed fretfully at its bridle, lowering its narrow head and tugging against Lascelles’ control. It exhaled a great breath, whose steam billowed out like smoke from a dragon in the chill air. Lascelles eyed it with displeasure and dragged its head back up, uncaring about its comfort. The nasty beast had taken a disliking to him from the moment he’d laid eyes on the rawboned bay in the stables in Yorkshire. Then it had had the temerity to dump him off in the middle of a busy thoroughfare when they were barely a few hours on the road. 

Early in the day, Lascelles and Childermass had been wending their way from the heart of busy thriving Yorkshire out into the pastoral lands surrounding the city. A post chaise passed them at a crossroads, going at a goodly pace and startling their animals. The bay nag Lascelles rode had shied and bucked. Toppling off, he nearly landed beneath Childermass’ horse Brewer’s hooves. Pushing himself out of the squelching muck that snow and passage had made of the roadway, Lascelles had a mind to give his animal a thrashing. He clutched his crop and swore at the nervous horse. It danced, eyes rolling in fear, and sidled aimlessly in the roadway, blocking traffic and forcing him to roll away to avoid being crushed.   
  
Suddenly a figure was before him, standing between Lascelles and his Judas steed. A solid, dark frame in tattered forest green and a long, worn, night black cloak that swirled and snapped as the man protected him. Childermass kept Brewer calm, while calling to the bay and was eventually successful in capturing its reins. His battered hat was knocked to the ground in the process. 

As Childermass wrestled with the horses, Lascelles had concentrated on glowering angrily at the world around him, waiting for his opportunity to take action. He was certainly not paralyzed by fear, nor shaking with anxiety for his own safety. And absolutely not warmed with admiration at the sight of those strong legs planted between him and danger. Nor by the calm bravery of the man who collected the miserable hell beast which had been foisted upon Lascelles by greedy, incompetent hostlers. And when steady arms helped him rise, he surely did not cling to them, nor lean on Childermass for support and even comfort, as he clambered gingerly back up on the horse. Never.

He did thank the man, however. In a sturdy, gentlemanly fashion. The cur didn’t even grace him with a word. Just nodded his head and curled those wicked, wide pink lips. Was it a relieved smile? Surely not. Childermass must have been celebrating the embarrassment and discomfort that Lascelles was feeling. The misbegotten pillock. He would get his due. 

After the accident, they’d made a push to cover more than half the distance of their journey by the end of their first day. The weather promised to worsen as the week went on so the sooner they reached their destination the better. 

Childermass took the lead and kept them going at a fast clip. Lascelles spent a stoic morning clinging to the bay’s neck, with perhaps a slight swim to his vision. He fought to not let Childermass see the nausea his horse’s blundering steps battered him with. He noted that his companion glanced back frequently. The glances needled Lascelles’ nerves like nails on a blackboard.

By midday, the sick feeling in Lascelles’ stomach had finally receded. However, they skipped stopping at an inn along the roadway in favor of eating up the miles. Lascelles regarded the tough meat and cheese they consumed on horseback with brooding disapproval. To vent his general feelings of ill will, he launched into invective. 

Lascelles waxed loquacious in his views of the vile animal he rode, the reckless driver of the post chaise, the addle-pated country administrators who had designed the tortuous roadways they travelled, the misbegotten saddlemaker who had botched the one his behind graced, and the wretched rival book collector whose fault it was that Childermass and Lascelles were forced to hurry into the hinterlands to acquire this invaluable tome. 

Childermass had slowed Brewer’s pace to ride side by side with Lascelles as they chewed their meager dinner. He listened, nodded and occasionally laughed. At a pause, Childermass commented, “Mr Lascelles, I agree with your estimation of the inconvenience of this journey. However, it was yourself who did insist upon your presence. It is of course an honor to have someone of your stature to accompany me on this task. However, it grieves me to think that it may cause such distress to you.” 

Lascelles narrowed his eyes, his gaze devouring Childerscelles’ visage. The words were polite but the gleam of amusement in the vagabond’s eyes clearly showed that he mocked.

“But how could I leave a task of such delicacy to you, sirrah? It would have been such an imposition. We can’t have Mr Norrell losing an important asset due to your shortcomings in dealing with your betters.” Lascelles watched with approval as the amusement in Childermass’ eyes drained away. The dark man huffed a deep breath and gave Lascelles a stony look, seeming on the edge of speaking his mind. But then he snapped his reins, urged the horse onwards double time. He did not speak again to Lascelles until dark had fallen. 

They arrived at the Red Hare Inn well after dusk. The cold had fallen upon them hard. The exertion of riding had given the cold winter sun’s blush the illusion of warmth while day’s light lasted. With sunset all comfort receded and Lascelles' pain multiplied.

During the final leg of their travel, Lascelles had begun to notice lines of pain crossing his back and girdling his legs. His left arm and shoulder were sore. Grumbling to himself he chanted a litany of abuse towards his horse timed to the lurching cadence of its steps. With night and the retreat of all semblance of heat, his muscles seized and the dull aches became piercing. His legs, exhausted, lost the ability to hold him up and he wrapped the horse’s mane around his hands to form a stable anchor, shaking his head and sighing at the indignity of relying on this animal that had caused his injury. 

The cold snatched at his fingers. In time he unwound one set of stiff digits from the mane and tucked it inside his cloak. He rocked side to side, thoughts erased by the effort of simply staying on the horse’s back. 

A full moon rose high above the land. It traced crooked shadows of trees across silver fields as they came into a village at last. Dark smudges of smoke rose from solitary chimneys. Lascelles focused momentarily on the checkered night, noting numbly that Childermass kicked his sturdy mount into a jog and soon outdistanced him towards the scattered dwellings. Unable to rouse himself to care, Lascelles resumed his struggle with staying upright. 

It startled him when his horse stopped beside a riderless Brewer. Gazing long at a cheery red and white sign emblazoned with the head of a rabbit, it sank in that they had reached shelter. He waited, thinking evil thoughts about his horse, drifting in memory and flooded with fatigue.

The sound of a door closing and crisp footsteps in snow broke the quiet of the night. Childermass was saying something. His forehead was crinkled. Perhaps they were being turned away? Lascelles caught something about a bed before his tenuous grasp on consciousness disappeared and he heard and saw no more. 


	3. Chapter 3

A delicious warmth and all encompassing sense of comfort greeted Henry Lascelles at the dawn of a new day. He licked his lips, eyes shut, limbs loose and slack. Against his nose and cheek was a feathery softness. One hand he tucked into his own neck, curled snug and cozy. The other lay beneath blankets atop a nearby mass with its own welcome heat. Solid yet yielding. Stable yet moving with a calm rhythm, up and down. 

Lascelles snapped into awareness. His eyes confirmed it. He was lying in a far too narrow bed, with his traitorous limbs clinging to that tatterdemalion scarecrow, Childermass. The indignities mounted. His face was nuzzled into a nasty hank of the man’s begrimed hair. Lascelles' body lay taut against the firm column of his bed mate’s repugnant form. And to top it all off, his own bamboozled senses had tricked him into a state of erotic excitation. For a moment too long for health or sanity he lingered, feeling the delicious pressure of Childermass’ muscled thigh against his own hard length. 

Lascelles jerked his body out of contact with the hateful man and fell with a crash onto the cold, unforgiving ground. 

Childermass sat up and spoke almost immediately, “What happened? Mr Lascelles? Are you all right?” 

He was greeted not with explanations, but a wordless cry. Lascelles had fallen upon a pair of discarded boots. The impact sent waves of agony through his body. Bruises waking that had not yet shown their true severity the day before. 

“I’m dying!” Lascelles finally put forth. 

Childermass, clothed only in his nightdress and hastily pulled on stockings, had drawn near. His dark eyes burned with worry. His hair fell free, a stormcloud of raven-dark locks spilling across the white bounty of his wide shoulders. 

Lascelles averted his eyes and writhed on the ground. He felt strong hands clasp head and arm, touching then turning him to see if some new malady had sprung forth on the ginger haired man in the night. 

Lascelles groaned prodigiously at this man-handling. He heard a surprising sound and slowly opened his eyes to glare at Childermass. The man's dark eyes were now sparkling and low laughter escaped his mouth. 

“I’m lying half-dead on the floor, and all you can think to do is chortle like a madman?” Lascelles shifted his hip, trying to bring a foot into alignment so that he could kick Childermass. All he succeeded in doing was reminding himself of the degree of his injuries that his legs had sustained, and putting pressure on the battered shoulder which lay beneath him. He cried out in pain once more, in answer to which Childermass began guffawing in earnest. 

“You idiotic shabbaroon! Doltish scrub!” Lascelles cried. However, he ruined the intimidating effect he was going for by ending with a whimpered plea, “Help me up..” as he tried and failed to sit up. 

The waves of laughter receding, Childermass shook his head and mumbled something like “Impossible man,” that Lascelles did not quite catch. Then warm strong hands were upon him once more, being thrust beneath his body. Childermass braced himself, then hefted, a puff of his breath exploding against Lascelles' ear. Then Lascelles found himself bodily picked up, his pain riddled form held gently against Childermass’ chest, in his arms. 

A strange memory pierced Lascelles’ mind: the scent of roses, soft hands in his hair, being held tight within a loving embrace, a mother's kiss. He had no conscious recall of the least particle of any detail in this vision. He dismissed it from his mind. 

Lascelles clung to Childermass’ arms in a panic. “You will receive a fiercely worded letter from my solicitor if I come to harm due to your actions!” 

Childermass stilled where he had been in the motion of lowering Lascelles softly to the bed. Instead he dropped the man the scant distance remaining. All humor had fled his face. He stood towering over the slight ginger man, huffing in aggravation. He raised a hand and pointed a finger at Lascelles.

“You, sir, are an ungrateful wretch. I’ve been nothing but solicitous of your health, and you threaten me with legal action?” Those large square hands landed on his waist, bringing the hips into relief and showing in silhouette the lines of his long legs. The now taut night dress hinted at generous dimensions of his private area. “You are not dying, Mr Lascelles. No, you escaped that fate yesterday. But with the temper you’ve shown fit to bestow upon me, it strikes me as a very miracle that you’ve not been killed a thousand times before this day.” His eyes were as flint. “Now, kindly shut your maw, settle in and keep warm,” he tugged the blankets roughly, pulling them out from beneath Lascelles and then tossed them over the man’s face, “allow me to prepare to face the day and we’ll get you sorted out as best we may.” 

Lascelles huffed, pulling the blankets away from his face and readied another volley of insults and complaints. Childermass cut him off, shouting, “Enough!” 

Outside the door to their room, footsteps and a knocking were heard. Not waiting for a response, it opened and a young blonde head poked inside. With a worried expression and a bitten lip, the porter said, “Begging your forgiveness, sirs. It’s terrible early and the other guests are still sleeping.” He looked ready to duck should they throw a shoe at him. “Can I be of service?”

“No!” shouted Lascelles, still in full fit of pique. Childermass put his hand on Lascelles’ mouth, shutting him up physically. He glared down at him, daring him to bite, wordlessly promising consequences should he try. Lascelles stared daggers, but sighed and shrugged in surrender. Childermass smiled darkly then turned to the young man. 

“Yes. Your father offered us use of a bath this morning, and my traveling companion will be requiring this. Also, there were some teas that the lady of the house said she could acquire that relieve pain…”

Two hours time found Lascelles ensconced in a half barrel full of now-cooling water, with three cups of willow bark tea already consumed. He stared out the window at the leaden sky. 

A knock sounded at their chamber door. 

“Enter.” Childermass did so. He tossed towels towards Lascelles and began assembling their belongings into a neat pile on the bed. 

“The horses are ready. Get yourself out of there and we’ll be off.” He quirked a half smile. “Unless your lordship has any new wounds I should tend to? Or perhaps you wish to return to London to speak with your solicitor? I can travel on alone, you realize.” 

Lascelles rolled his eyes. Stretching his limbs cautiously, he found that pain had receded. Livid bruises had begun to spring to the surface of his flesh, but unless he poked at them specifically, they were not an immediate impediment. He considered his response and gave Childermass what he believed to be a charming smile.

“Of course not. How could I leave this to you after all the way we’ve come?” 

Childermass shook his head and gave no answer. 

* * *

They laid eyes on the village of Ravenscar before the grey drowsy light of the day gave way almost imperceptibly to night. The atmosphere had grown heavier by the hour. A hush had taken the countryside; animals preparing for the onslaught of what looked to be a great winter storm. In the dimming light they glimpsed the road winding in its ascent to a hilltop terminating in high cliffs above the sea. The sea’s rhythm carried to them on the wind, the only thing breaking the unnatural quiet of the day. 

Drawing closer they could see that the road connected a scattering of small wooden, thatched-roof homes with a set of imposing yellow hewn-stone buildings. These latter comprised the alum factory. Above the village stood the Raven Hall, built by one Captain William Childs of London, founder of the factory and architect of the prosperity of this formerly sleepy little town. The massive dark shape of Raven Hall stood at the edge of the cliff, looking out to sea. 

Captain Childs served in the King's Regiment of Light Dragoons. Lascelles was eagerly curious to meet this man, who combined military prowess with business acumen, as well--it seemed--with a curiosity about the powers of Enchantment in the world. But what a puzzle. How came he to have the Book of Harbottle in his library? And so finding, why would he then part with it? 

Reaching the town, they pressed on to Raven Hall. Their invitation was to stay as a guest of Captain Childs, to inspect the book and have ample time to negotiate its purchase. Childermass had been doing some calculations of travel time based on information he had gathered about the other buyer. Given the weather they should be the only ones who could make it here. With cash on hand, they aimed to bring the book home to Mr Norrell and beat their competitor. Lascelles had high confidence. 

His injuries, however, were beginning to wear on him once more. They had taken a long rest mid-day, allowing him time off that cursed nag’s back. If he was particularly skillful at his haggling for the book, Lascelles thought he should perhaps aim to hire carriage passage back. Since he would be alone--Childermass likely rotting in a cell looking forward to a lengthy prison sentence for his sexual deviancy by that time--this might be safer as well as more comfortable. He glanced at his travelling companion and indulged in a furtive smirk. Soon, soon, he would be rid of the plague of Childermass. 

To reach journey's end Childermass wished them to race through the town of Ravenscar. Lascelles called to him and insisted they call upon the post master. 

“The weather looks to hit us soon, Mr Lascelles. Especially with your hurt to care for, we should be inside and soon.” 

Lascelles stopped himself from feeling gratitude. “Exactly the reason why we should do this today. We must know if any further messages from M. Blanc, or others have reached the master of Raven Hall, to see if we have any other contenders to vie with.” He continued in this vein until Childermass worn down by the travel himself (and seeming willing to do anything so long as it speeded them towards their final goal) agreed.

They knocked on the house that had been indicated to them as the dwelling of the master of post and he agreeably opened the doors to the postal hall for their convenience. Lascelles assembled their messages for mailing and grilled the master on recent deliveries to the hall. He left a very important and secret package as well, which the post master assured Lascelles he would deliver by hand to the local constabulary. Lascelles thanked him for his diligence and requested his discretion, providing a thank you gift of several notes to ensure his cooperation.

Lascelles left the postal hall humming happily to himself, interrupted only by a shock of pain as he stumbled on a rut in the road. Childermass’ arm was at the ready, and the man helped him, humiliatingly, get up into the saddle. Fuming and glowering over the perceived slight the man gave him by being of service, Lascelles looked with eagerness to their arrival at long last at Raven Hall. 


	4. Chapter 4

It was full dark by the time Lascelles and Childermass reached Raven Hall. The snow had begun to fall. Large flakes drifted across them, gilding the horses’ manes argent. A reedy boy with alert green eyes and nimble hands helped them with their with mounts in the courtyard. Barnabas, or more familiarly Barney, patted Brewer appreciatively and smiled as the big horse butted him, asking for his oats and a dry stall. Lascelles handed off his mare’s reins with relief. Childermass chatted with the groom. There was approval in the kindly smile and calm words the dark man gifted easily to the boy. Lascelles rolled his eyes. Trust Childermass to take notice of the first urchin they came across. Probably remembering his own childhood or some such nonsense.

In a piping voice that hinted at an accent Lascelles could not immediately place, the boy directed them where to enter the Hall and told them they were expected. Food had been spread, refreshment from their journey. Beds were being warmed for their nights to be restful. Barny’s mother, the cook and housekeeper Mrs Moore, would greet them along with Atkins, the chief footman and man-of-all-work at the manor. Their host had retired already for the evening, but was pleased to meet them in the morning. 

An hour’s time found the two travelers ensconced in a comfortable sitting room with a lively fire crackling away on the grate and generous trays of food at their disposal. Lascelles reluctantly found himself approving of the surroundings. The rooms were not in the newest fashion, but everything was appointed with quality. He had glimpsed paintings by Titian and Turner which he hoped to examine more closely later. And the food, far from being the colorless fare which often greeted one on visit to backwood holdings, was good solid English board informed by a French sensibility. Delicate sauces accompanied the joints of meat supplied them, and fruit was joined by lightly frosted cakes to sweeten their palates. 

Lascelles had upon infrequent occasions shared meals with Childermass during dinners offered at Mr Norrell’s home. More commonly Childermass took his repast with the servants or where-ever else it might please him to do so. But never had Lascelles sat beside the man to dine, and he certainly had never shared his meat in a positively intimate setting such as this. 

Lascelles braced himself for awful smacking noises, burping and open mouthed chewing which were trademarks of persons of Childermass’ station. Especially those, Lascelles firmly believed, who had gotten above themselves. But Childermass’ manners, though not fine, were acceptable. It was perhaps the contrast between the discomforts of the road and the warm pleasures of the hearth that in this moment made Childermass’ comments upon their task and their journey seem less tedious than they otherwise might. And the dusky profile which reflected the rosy glow of the flames perhaps even pleasing to the eye. 

Lascelles reminded himself that it was time for him to begin the machinations which would lead to his eventual deliverance from this vagabond. Taking stock of his positive response to Childermass’ appearance, he commended himself upon slipping into the dissembled role of a would be woo-er so easily. In order for there to be a crime for the constable to interrupt and apprehend Childermass for, Lascelles had to prime the pump, so to speak. To lay some groundwork. He needed Childermass to be in a properly malleable disposition in order to be found in a compromising position. Perhaps this moment was the right time to begin his campaign of flirtation and dissimulation of attraction. 

Touching a napkin to his lips and sighing replete with satisfaction at their meal, Lascelles smiled at Childermass. He leaned towards the man conspiratorially. Childermass narrowed his eyes slightly but assumed a listening pose. 

“My good man, I must thank you for all your service on the road. You went to great trouble upon my behalf and I hope you understand how much it is all appreciated. You’re a man who is often overlooked, and I think it’s high time you got what you deserved.” Lascelles agreed with the maxim that the best way to tell a mistruth was to include as much veracity as possible. He lingered with great relish over his last sentiment as he concentrated on giving a grateful open-seeming look to his travelling companion. 

Childermass nodded, but pursed his lips looking unconvinced. “Please don’t trouble yourself over the journey. It truly was what I would have done for any man. A stranger, even. And certainly do not think hard upon any kind rewards you may be intimating. I agree perhaps about my being one who does not take center stage. But that is not a cause for concern to me.” He looked more intently at Lascelles and his smile deepened. A devilish glint appearing in his eye for a moment before his face cleared of anything but bland attentiveness. “It would of course be improper for me to look to be placed above my station. A man of your delicate sensibilities would be aware of that. I am happy for the opportunity fate has laid at my feet to be among my betters such as Mr Norrell, our host Captain Childs and yourself.” 

Atkins took away their dishes and the remainder of the meal. He brought out two fine blue glasses which he filled with a deep red port wine. Lascelles thought how to respond to Childermass’ obvious cheek as he sipped. Atkins hearing their words took it upon himself to interject, addressing Lacelles.

“Begging your forgiveness, sir, we’ve made room for your man in the servants’ quarters. Barney’s up stoking the fire in your room, Mr. Lascelles. And we can be sure to let Childermass here be up in time to dress and see to your things in the morning. Unless you’d be wanting my assistance?” 

A look passed between Childermass and Lascelles. Forbidding on the part of Childermass, gleeful on the part of Lascelles. Before Childermass could formulate a correction, Lascelles responded. 

“Thank you for your efficiency, Atkins. That will be quite agreeable. Childermass can see to all my needs. You and Mrs Moore have been most accommodating. We will communicate our gratitude to our host on the morrow.” 

Atkins exited with a grateful word and nod. Lascelles cheerfully ignored the thunderous look Childermass leveled at him. He sipped his port and pushed his toes closer to the fire. 

“Mr. Lascelles.”

“Yes?”

“You do realize I am not your servant?”

“What would you have me do? Burden the Captain’s staff? If I’m not mistaken we’ve met all of them, minus a scullery maid or two.”

“You’re not seriously asking me to clothe you?” Lascelles idly imagined the storm clouds gathering in Childermass’ mien were about to roll out bolts of lightning. Lascelles relished the sparks and smiled back at the man. 

They were saved from knowing what would come of this conflict by Atkins suggesting he show them to their rooms. Lascelles eyed Childermass slyly as the man rose, still glowering, and followed one of the aforementioned nameless maids out of the room. 

Moments later, Lascelles was happy Childermass had left before him. Upon rising, he groaned out loud, his bruises and wounds making themselves known once more. He hobbled to his room leaning on Atkins’ arm. He fell into bed and was snoring shortly thereafter. Lascelles fell asleep with a smile on his face, musing happily on the outrage so apparent on Childermass’ face when last he saw him. 

* * *

  
The new day dawned white and blank. Deep drifts blocked doorways and branches dropped heavy loads of snow scattershot. The snow continued to fall, the flakes now small and serious, making visibility difficult. Lascelles woke to the sounds of wood being piled in at the grate. He opened the deep red curtains on the four-poster bed he had slept in. Barney was building up the fire. Lascelles leaned back taking in details of his surroundings in the light. Dark stained wood curled in elaborately carved scrollwork. Tiny ravens peeped out behind oak leaves on the headboard. 

Lascelles was in an inordinately good mood this morning. The boy told him they’d heard tell of his fall on the way and would have liniment and a hot bath ready for him shortly. The master of the house looked to speak with him when they broke their fast in the dining room, and his man would be up to see him shortly to help him with his toilet and bath. 

_**His** man._ He meant Childermass, surely. Lascelles nearly chortled with pleasure. 

Barney and Atkins brought in a modest metal tub likely shifted from its usual purpose of washing clothes. They filled the mottled grey vessel with steaming water and tossed in some herbs that Mrs Moore reported would help his recovery. 

After they departed, Lascelles stripped nude and struggled stiffly and painfully into the steaming water, settling down with a great sigh of pleasure. A duet of floral scents lulled his senses; drifts of generous handfuls of dried chamomile and lavender growing soft and lax even as his muscles did the same. 

When some time later a frustrated Childermass burst into his room unannounced, Lascelles leaned back luxuriously, giving the man a full once over from head to toe. The release of the bath and the alibi of his intended plot gave him license to devour the dark man’s limbs and features with his eyes. 

“I’m waiting on seeing Captain Childs but no one will give me an ounce of peace until I’ve ‘seen to my master’ and ‘tended to your wounds’--- Childermass burst out, until his eyes took in the tableau before him. Nearly indistinguishable from the morning prior, but changed in tone and temperature by Lascelles’ demeanor. Childermass’ voice stuttered to a halt with an intaken breath. _Come closer,_ Lascelles thought, _is that desire that darkens your eyes? I think it is._

Lascelles lay back deeper in the bath, setting his papers aside and tipping his head back. He envisioned the long line his chest and neck now made, open and vulnerable. Listening closely he heard Childermass swallow once more and take another step towards him. He lowered his head and opened his eyes, gazing at Childermass through his lashes and not trying in the least to hide the hunger he felt. Childermass remained silent, anger giving way to bafflement. 

Judging the moment was right, Lascelles gathered himself to rise. He stood, pink and dripping. The effect was tempered by his injuries. Rising from his prone position aggravated all his hurt muscles. He was forced to use both hands to push up, grunting in discomfort as he did so. The outcome was as he wished however. Before he could even request Childermass bring him the towel, the man was there beside him with cloth in hand. 

Lascelles winced and reflexively reached out for support. Childermass’ arm was there for him. Childermass’ glance slid lower for a moment that lengthened into a long space of several breaths where eyes rested on the center of his sex. A warm rose color suffused Childermass’ face, and Lascelles leaned deeper into the taller man’s body. 

Lascelles inhaled Childermass’ scent, taking in notes of smoke, leather and tea. Familiar to him now, he realized. And welcome. He felt his cock thicken with interest. 

“Could you help me out?” Lascelles whispered. 

Childermass eyes widened. So close now, Lascelles could divine the deep night of his pupil from the chocolate brown of the iris. Childermass gaze shot down again. His free hand twitched. Lascelles smiled. 

“Of the tub,” he said. “Could you help me out of the tub.”

Childermass exhaled a long breath, whether of disappointment or relief Lascelles was not sure, but he was well pleased enough to have shaken the man’s stoic exterior. Bracing himself on Childermass’ arm which he’d claimed with a warm, wet grip, he grasped the man’s opposite shoulder with his other hand. All play acting set aside, Lascelles placed his weight on Lascelles in earnest. He attempted to stifle a very real groan of pain as he lifted first one leg then the other out and above the lip of the grey metal tub. 

Childermass accepted his weight in a satisfying manner. Strong, square hands slid beneath Lascelles’ arms and gripped him firmly. Their chests met. Lascelles looked up to meet Childermass’ dark gaze. Forgetting his pain, Lascelles eyes flickered between Childermass eyes and lips. He was gratified to see Childermass’ eyes chart a similar path. 

_Well, that’s enough for now._ Lascelles leaned closer and breathed into Childermass’ ear, “You can get my gold silk vest.” Childermass face took on a disgruntled look. 

Lascelles straightened up and went on imperiously, “It’s hanging in the wardrobe. I’ll take that and my pale brown suit. It suits my coloring well, don’t you think?” Draping the towel loosely about himself, he hobbled over to a chest at the foot of the bed, Several neck cloths were laid out. “Do you think, navy, burgundy or simple white?” He hefted one and looked over at Childermass with an insincere smile. His eyes met a frosty gaze. 

Childermass tossed open the door to the wardrobe, carelessly rifling through the garments held within. Sighing deeply, he found the items requested, then strode over and tossed them onto the bed. 

Lascelles went on, “The burgundy, I think. I really shouldn’t trouble someone with such a limited supply of clothing with a bewilderment of choices.” He cast another simpering smile in Childermass’ direction. 

The dark haired man was wearing the same suit he’d worn on the road, now brushed and cleaned. Even a slight tear which Lascelles had noted the night before had been repaired. It was the same deep forest green clothes he wore when he stepped between Lascelles and danger on the road. The color suited him right down to the ground. The sable of his hair lying heavy and thick across his strapping shoulders. A curtain of night bracketing the verdant boughs of an indomitable pine. 

Green-clad arms crossed and closed against a breast heaving deep with resentment. “I will not insult God’s work by naming you one of his creatures. But many words do come to mind.” Lascelles smiled at Childermass, honestly amused. Childermass shook his head, taking a step towards the door. “Do join the party when you are ready. There is much to be done today and the master of the house will be waiting.” 

His long strides took him almost to the door. “John--” Lascelles said. Childermass came to a dead stop. He did not turn to look at Lascelles. 

“I’m afraid--” Lascelles hesitated. Caught between the pleasure of manipulating the man and his actual need for assistance to dress. “I actually, do need your help.” Lascelles was blushing. This could not stand. He marshalled his breath to order Childermass back to help him, but found ready hands instead. 

Lascelles felt himself being bodily maneuvered to his bedside. Pushed back until he needs must bend his knees and sit down. Hands on his shoulders pressing him down. Then skillful hands pulling at the clothes piled on the bedding, tugging arms out, pulling fabric on limbs, smoothing and pulling buttons closed. 

He stared into John Childermass’ eyes. The man held his gaze wordlessly as he finished buttoning the shirt. Lascelles felt the brush of his warm breath against his cheek. Then those dark eyes looked elsewhere. Hose and breeches were retrieved. Lascelles felt rough fingers touch his ankle gently, lift his leg. 

Lascelles’ breath caught in his throat. His cock twitched. Childermass’ hands stilled. Then the garments were up over Lascelles’ feet and legs. The movements were brisk, impersonal. The sensations, however, were deeply personal. Lascelles’ nerves tingled where those workman’s hands grazed his skin. The clean scent of the man invaded his senses. 

Lascelles sought Childermass’ eyes but they were down, focusing on the task at hand, never straying to groin or face of the man he aided. 

At last the snug breeches and hose were set. Hands on his shoulders pulled Lascelles to standing. His heart beat a harsh tempo within his chest. He inhaled deeply to calm his breath and was rewarded by the detection of deeper underlying elements of Childermass’ essence: hints of musk and sandalwood. 

Childermass stood before him, head tilted down, dark eyes staring intently. Lascelles looked back, transfixed. 

In Lascelles’ hand lay still three neck cloths. Not looking to determine the color first, Childermass pulled one abruptly away. He moved fractionally closer and wrapped the fabric around Lascelles neck. Eyes boring into the other’s, he pulled it tight. Tighter than comfort allowed. Lascelles eyes widened and he swallowed. 

Childermass took a deep breath, then worked the cloth looser. His eyes dropped to fix instead on Lascelles neck as clever fingers wound the material and tied a knot. He spoke as he worked.

“You will heal. This treatment will end. I do you this courtesy as a travelling companion. You are not my master.” He completed the knot, then stepped away from Lascelles, stalking to the door and leaving it open behind him. 

Lascelles stood a moment, mind whirling. Then he moved to a place where he could see his own image in a glass. He was dressed, his clothes not perfectly straight but buttons in their proper place and knot neatly made. He looked closer and his eyes hardened. The pale pink flush suffusing his cheeks turned red with anger. 

His brilliant burgundy neck cloth had been tied neatly. Not in the mathematical fashion, or osbaldeston which were common styles for Lascelles. Or even the plain barrel knot which Childermass seemed to favor. Instead the crisp linen appeared in a horse collar knot. The careless look favored by drovers, laborers and the most common sort of man.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Captain Childs makes his appearance finally. In my mind he is played by Cillian Murphy. Please feel free to so imagine.

Henry Lascelles was shown into the drawing room at Raven Hall. He walked deliberately, rather than sweeping into the room as he might have wished. His still tender left arm rested, with his hand lying on his waist. He limped slightly. His raiment was neat and stylish. 

The rich burgundy cravat at his neck had been re-tied with precision folds into a hunting tie pattern with gordian knot.

The room had large windows which looked out onto a long white expanse of plain field and hummocked gardens surrounding the manor house. The land terminated abruptly in what Lascelles knew to be a cruel cliff above the sea. In the distance the coast could be nearly glimpsed beneath the snow. It curled like a crescent moon into the stretch known as Robin Hood’s Bay. 

The sound of crashing waves fought to be heard over a mournful wind. Snow gusted, and as Lascelles stepped into the room, the windows rattled violently. The clatter seemed to be stronger than typical, as all eyes in the room briefly leapt united to the window panes. A raven cawed loud and close.

A cold chill ran down Lascelles’ spine, which he attributed to a draft.

He strode forward into the room, smiling graciously. The room was comfortable and generous. A long champagne-colored sofa was flanked by hand-tooled chairs similar in style to Lascelles’ bed frame. Ruddy dark tables suitable for cards and a well-organized writing desk made from amber hued teak stood in pleasing arrangements. Trays had been wheeled in, holding several styles of breakfast cakes and a large pot of steaming tea. 

The Master of Raven Hall, Captain William Childs, sat facing the doorway on a great mahogany chair. A white clay pipe with a long elegant stem was clasped between his lips. His brow furrowed, he turned his gaze away from the windows to look at Lascelles. Dark brows and thick black hair bracketed sky blue eyes and graceful cheek bones the right of which was lacerated with pale scars. The skin on his comely oval face still showed a tan despite the season, the scar a striking exception like pallid lightning carved upon his flesh. His hands were weathered beyond his years, evidence of harsh salt water spray and endless days in the sun, fighting and travelling upon the open sea. His eyes sparkled with calm intelligence. 

Lascelles took the man’s measure and began calculations in his mind on how best to approach their negotiations. 

Lascelles studiously ignored Childermass, seated on a corner of the sofa just to the left of the Captain. However, the skin on his side closest to the Yorkshireman prickled. His presence loomed in Lascelles' awareness even as he averted his eyes. His breath hitched minimally as he detected movement by Childermass. But, deigning finally to glance at him from the corner of his eye, he saw the man was simply tamping full his pipe, seeming also to pay no attention to his travelling companion. 

The Captain’s brow wrinkled once more glancing between the two of them. Lascelles spoke hastily unsure whether the Captain’s awareness of tension between them would be an aid for his own personal mission to implicate Childermass in illegal activities--but knowing it could not be but ill for their professional task of retrieving the book. At the moment, he found himself not able to face any of the myriad emotions that John Childermass raised in him. So he pressed forward with their stated plan. 

After bowing politely, Lascelles presented the Captain with Mr Norrell’s letter of introduction. “We thank you for your hospitality. We hope to intrude no longer than necessary and wish to conclude our business with you expeditiously.” 

The man accepted the letter, making a gesture of invitation for Lascelles to help himself to the repast. Atkins stepped forward to serve the tea and assist Lascelles in settling in. He chose to sit on one of the chairs, as far from the place Childermass occupied on the sofa as possible. 

Captain Childs read the letter, various expressions crossing his face. Childermass lit his pipe. A strangely domestic calm settled over the room. 

Despite himself, Lascelles found his attention straying to Childermass. His eyes drifted to the man and intercepted a similarly furtive look directed his way. Their gazes held and clung for uncounted moments, communicating nothing and all. Then each looked away once more. 

Childermass puffed at his pipe. Lascelles nibbled at a delicately spiced cake. He hummed his approval.

“Ah, your assessment of my cook’s skills agrees with my own, does it?” The Captain broke the silence with a smile. His voice was higher than Lascelles had expected, made him reassess the man’s years. He spoke with a deep northern accent reminiscent of Mr Childermass’ Yorkshire twang. Lascelles also detected a lilt that spoke to him of the Emerald Isle. 

“My highest compliments,” said Lascelles gallantly, “Your staff is of the best quality. We were well taken care of yester’eve and all the food has been unexcelled.” Relaxing his focus to take in the whole company, Lascelles saw Childermass arch an eyebrow in some surprise and nod approvingly. A smile warmed Captain Child’s face and sparked a somewhat inward, fond light in his eyes. _Much better, they are both relaxing their guards,_ thought Lascelles. His smile deepened.

The Captain responded, “Indeed. They are good to a one, but Mrs Moore is a real treasure. Though,” the light in his eyes dimmed and took on a melancholy tone as he paused. “Though the reason for her coming to this place and taking on those duties is not one I would wish upon her or anyone.” 

Childermass took the pipe from his mouth and asked, “How did she come into your service, sir?”

“She had the misfortune to lose her husband at sea,” The Captain responded. He looked somber and spoke quietly, “They met and fell in love during his military service. He brought her home to England. Then he died under my command. Moore was a member of my crew. A good man who was of service to me personally more than once. And his actions at his death saved me from a fate worse than the blow to my vanity which gave me these.” He touched the scars on his face. He described the battle and the shot which took Moore’s life instead of Childs’, when the sailor pushed his Captain out of the way of danger. He provided the man’s family service positions in his household to repay his sacrifice. 

The Captain then waved a hand at Childermass smiling again, “But please do not grace me with titles undeserved. I am no ‘sir.’ And you cannot stand upon ceremony with me.” Childermass nodded and returned the smile warmly. The Captain addressed his next remark to Lascelles. “Mr Childermass and I have found that we grew up in villages but a stone’s throw from one another. His mother assisted at the delivery of my younger sister, in fact.” 

Lascelles froze. This was an unexpected and unwelcome development. If Childermass had found a fast ally in their host, would his own attempt to discredit the man ruin his ability to contract their transaction and claim the book of power? Cautious action was required. 

Lascelles sat captured in thought. Childermass described the route he’d often travelled from one township to the other. The next little while was taken up with nostalgic reminiscences in which Lascelles could hardly be expected to take part. He smiled politely and listened, hearing little. 

A tight fist seemed to take a grip on Lascelles’ chest at the sight of the bright looks and unguarded laughs shared between the two other men. Something painful twisted in his gut. 

_Tonight,_ he thought. His plan was in place. The trap was set to fall upon Childermass. The constable was due to arrive in the evening, shortly after the household would be expected to be asleep. Lascelles had confirmed with the postmaster that the local watch made visits on occasion to households in the village. More commonly in fact at Raven Hall due to the prominence of its inhabitant. Tonight this visit would coincide with the perpetration of a crime, and an accusation of the worst sort of debasement and violation. 

Lascelles would, upon the arrival of the constabulary, reveal Childermass for the sodomite that he was. His goal was to seduce the man into a compromising state. But should that not be possible, Lascelles would arrange his own appearance so as to be convincing. And of course, their relative status would provide weight to his words in the eyes of the household and the law. 

Childermass’ destruction lay in wait for him this very night.

An electric thrill shot through Lascelles. He felt twin impulses of excitation. One stream at the thought of enticing Childermass to strip down his defenses and act upon the heat he had seen in his eyes earlier. And a tandem, pounding, desperate hunger he felt to see the man humbled at his feet. With eyes full of fear and remorse, at Lascelles’ mercy and subject to the retribution of the law. 

Lascelles licked his lips, a detailed image of John Childermass bound and vulnerable igniting images in his mind and heat in his loins. 

The Captain addressing him brought Lascelles back to the present. 

“..finish my accounts and correspondence this morning, but after the midday meal I will have time to show you the book. It is under lock and key with some others of incidental value, but you are both most welcome to peruse the rest of my library. And to make yourself welcome in the house and grounds.” They gave him their thanks. He went on.

“Not so like that you’d be going outside in this weather, but do stay clear of the cliffs. There are tales that they are haunted, which men of science and craft such as yourselves may take as you will.” He slipped into a reflective frame of mind, silent again for a moment. “But I have seen such things at war as make me stop and consider if there might be more truth to such tales than I would have formerly ascribed. At any rate, they are dangerous and sudden. You’d do best to stay well away. I hope your stay will be a safe one, with less risk of harm perhaps than your journey here.” He gave a meaningful look to Lascelles. “I take it your injuries are being cared for, Mr Lascelles.” 

“Of course, Captain Childs. Thank you for the warning. You say you’ve seen Practical Magic at work on campaign? Is that what prompted your interest in the subject and acquisition of the Dolorous Book of Harbottle?”

“Nay. In fact, it is the reverse. Before I had experienced magic first hand, I had been intrigued with its possibilities,” he looked ruefully out to the windows and bent to relight his pipe. “It was that feeling which induced me to purchase the Harbottle tome and a few others which had come across my sights in the common course of business and neighborliness. I even,” he paused to take a puff and his gaze returned to the room, lingering on first Lascelles then Childermass, “considered making a visit to London to confer with your Master, Mr Norrell. Or to seek to encounter him next time he was back in York.”

“Indeed, Mr Norrell would have been happy to make your acquaintance. Especially in London I believe he would have been well pleased to encounter a fellow Yorkshireman,” Lascelles said. He was distracted by the need to ignore Childermass’ eye roll, no doubt thinking of the many men from all quarters of the kingdom which Lascelles had turned away from their door. None being “at the level” of their Master and thus none found deserving of his attentions. 

Captain Childs went on, “As it happens, I instead met Mr. Jonathan Strange.” Lascelles and Childermass attention each broke away from the other and turned back to the Captain. 

“When?” said Lascelles.

“How?” said Childermass.

“He was a passenger on my ship. We carried troops returning from Waterloo.” His gaze now narrowed. He subjected each of them to his scrutiny. A tension filled the air. Lascelles felt the tingle of excitement. Something told him the conversation had hit a dynamic moment of import. 

Childermass spoke. His voice held a thoughtful air. “And after meeting Strange, you decided you no more wanted a part of it. Of Magic.” 

Childs nodded, taking a last puff on his pipe, then setting it aside, empty. “Yes.”

Lascelles prompted, “Why?”

The Captain sighed his shoulders moving in a soft wave. “The man I met was a shattered man. His men told stories aplenty of his feats. Paving roads out of nowhere. Bringing the dead to life speaking again with the tongues of men. Even crafting his own hand out of earth to crush the breath from an enemy.” His voice was level, his eyes were hard. “The soldiers hooted and bragged, full of bluster for their army’s ‘Merlin’ and how with him at their backs none could beat them. Not the Emperor, not any man. But Strange was silent on the war. His eyes were haunted. At my table, he spoke not a word about his exploits. Instead, he spoke at length about his home in England. Of his wife, the fair Arabella. How they met and the joys he felt in her presence.” 

Lascelles nodded and said, “Strange is devoted to his wife. It is no secret.”

Childs said, “I would agree. Also, he was clinging to her love as a shield to protect himself from what now lay in his past. Unless I mis-guess, unlike each of you I have also seen battle and war. I know the face of a man who has seen brutality. More than any soul should have to bear. And this, without the uncanny world of Magic which only two of our time have faced and mastered and returned.” 

Childermass said, “We too have seen Strange since his time at war. I would say it did change him. There was an odd light in his eyes.” 

“Our Master, Norrell, is a also a war mage. He has waged battle on behalf of the English nation for many years now,” said Lacelles.

“But never,” Captain Childs interjected, “from the field of battle. I saw the illusory ships he conjured, and was plenty glad for them. I am sure they saved my life, too, and those of my men.” 

Lascelles nodded enthusiastically. “Mr Norrell is a great man. His powers are vast and have done much for the war effort. Directly helping people like you, Captain. His goals align with the will of the nation.” He saw his moment, “That is why we urge you to consider his offer above others. He has sent us empowered to make it well worth your while. And if you sell it to him, then this tome will be part of the greatest collection of Magical books in the country. Perhaps in the world.” 

Childermass set aside his own pipe, listening to Lascelles. Lascelles glanced his way several times as he made his pitch. What he thought he saw encouraged him to speak with conviction. 

Though temperament, experience and background all divided Lascelles and Childermass, their shared belief in Mr Gilbert Norrell brought them together. Their fates had been wedded since Norrell made his emergence onto the national scene. Their fortunes rose and fell with his own, and each others.’ In this moment, Childermass saw the value of Lascelles’ words, and uncustomarily offered his approval and support through a look and subtle nod. 

However, that shared trajectory would soon diverge. Lascelles savoured the sweet anticipation of the night’s betrayal and his subsequent triumph over Childermass.

Lascelles' thoughts were pulled back to the moment. Captain Childs responded, “I do find myself wondering to whom should I entrust this work, now that I no longer wish to be its guardian. Your Master is a great man, to be sure.” Lascelles nodded receptively. A good sign. “However, the thoughts that trouble me most in the small hours of the night, are whether perhaps any man is worthy of being trusted with that responsibility.”

Childermass leveled a hard gaze at the man. Lascelles half-gasped realizing what was being implied. “You do not mean to destroy the book? You could not!” 

A pursed lip was the answer. A half shrug. “These are my thoughts. I consider what my action should be.” 

“That is blasphemous!” Lascelles cried, pulling himself to rise, a wave of pain shooting through his back and legs. He thought he saw Childermass sway slightly in his direction. “Would you destroy the Chapel at King’s College? Strike down the Tower of London?” 

“You make good points. I am not for the destruction of art, or for the censorship of knowledge,” said the Captain. Lascelles smiled, feeling his point made. “However, although art may transform the heart and enlighten the mind, weapons too are some of the great achievements of craft and art. In my opinion, the Book of Harbottle may be one such.”

Childermass said, “You believe it has applications suitable to war, then?”

The Captain nodded. “Indeed. Exceedingly so.” 

Lascelles felt his heart beat strongly. _Such an asset. We must have it._

The Captain continued speaking, quietly. “You gentlemen both know that since my meeting with Mr Jonathan Strange, Mrs. Arabella Strange has died. It has come to my attention that she met with a strange end. Unexplainable occurrences. With odd tales echoing through the countryside about it.” 

“Gossiping and lying go hand in hand,” said Lascelles.

“That may be,” responded the Captain. “But the Strange I met was a man broken by the use of power and the cost it had taken from him. The timber he clung to in the wreck of his life was his beloved wife. Now, that too has been torn from him, with whispered words saying that it may be Magic that caused that theft.” He paused again, meeting each of their eyes in turn for emphasis. “This I do consider. This I weigh.”

With this pall cast over the conversation, they dispersed each to their own place and solemn reflections. They agreed to meet in the afternoon in the library to view the Dolorous Book of Harbottle itself. Lascelles burned to see it. The Captain’s words throwing fuel on the fire that burned within him to touch it, to see it, to claim it. 

Just as much, a fire burned in him for the night to come. To touch Childermass at last and to let the flames of scandal consume him. Freeing him finally from the torment of the dark man’s presence. 


	6. Chapter 6

After their meal, Lascelles asked to be guided to the library. He spent some time admiring volumes and assessing the education and taste of their host. Both were formidable. The man was full of surprises. From his keen intellect, to his discerning conscience, to the common background he’d overcome to rise to the position he held today. 

The Captain had had to scrape for each achievement. The contrast with Lascelles’ own life niggled at him like an itch beneath the skin. The pain and irritation growing as he scratched at it, his thoughts lingering on the disparity. The man must have skeletons Lascelles could unearth. War hero, pillar of the community, caring head of household. Disgusting. A fine face was sure to cover rot. And he would sniff it out. 

But in the meantime, the day was quiet, action of the household happening elsewhere. Childermass had gone off with young Barney, Lascelles recalled. The snow came tumbling thick still. They said something about caring for the horses out at the stables.

Lascelles knew he and Childermass should speak together about the book, before meeting with the Captain. To have any hope of making good on their goal they must work together--so long as Childermass was still present in the negotiations. Which would not be long if Lascelles had anything to say about that. He was waiting for the right moment.

That moment would come soon.

This day would be an eventful one. The trap was ready to be sprung. Tonight, the constable would arrive and Lascelles would decry Childermass’ sexual deviancy to the authority. The officer’s heavy purse, compliments of Lascelles, would pave the way for any defense Childermass might muster to fall on deaf ears. 

This strange connection which had sprung up between Childers and Captain Childs however, that was an unanticipated complication. Lascelles pondered how to counter it. Who would have thought that the master of a house like Raven Hall would have come from dirt just like Norrell’s tatterdemalion servant? 

How to reduce the impact of such a powerful ally? Lascelles sat by a window in the library, idly flipping the pages of Spencer’s _The Faerie Queen,_ and mused. Isolate him. The greater speed with which the removal could be accomplished, the further he would be from Captain Childs’ ability to intervene. Perhaps Childermass could be sent directly to the county court to make it less likely that the Captain could personally speak on Childermass’ behalf. 

But then who would bestir himself on the part of a criminal after a bare morning’s acquaintance? Lascelles could hardly countenance doing so for one or two of his oldest and most important friends. Why then should he suspect that this man would do so for a stranger like Childermass?

Lascelles chuckled to himself, reassured. All would be well. What was required was simply to place Childermass in a vulnerable position. 

His mind wandered and Lascelles stifled a delicate yawn. He’d been cautioned to rest frequently as he healed, and realized this was an excellent opportunity to follow up on this advice. He navigated his way back to his room, peering critically at the furnishings, as much to find something to complain about as to mark his path.

Satisfyingly, the great hall he passed on his way, was appointed like a prison cell. There was just a small table meant for few guests, no tapestries or grand landscapes adorned the walls. The furniture present were--though well-made and clearly solid--plain and absolutely dull to the eye. The room would be the laughing stock of the county should it be the site of any ball or entertainment. Lascelles’ eyes greedily consumed detail. He relished the thought of sending missives to various correspondents about the lack of culture to be found in this woebegone corner of the coast. Once their business was well concluded, of course.

He reached his room drowsily pleased. Stripping awkwardly and with some pain into just his underthings, he caressed his upper arm, patting his own back for cleverness in coming so close to overcoming Childermass. He stretched deliciously between the smooth sheets, and rolled his buttocks against the surprisingly comfortable bed beneath him. 

His mind drifted into the future. He practiced how he would piteously ask Childermass for his aid once more in the evening, this time to remove his clothes. He imagined the candles’ light sparkling in those liquid chocolate brown eyes. Of Childermass’ strong hand running down the line of his chest as he slid the jacket and waistcoat from him. Of the hunger he’d glimpsed in Childermass’ eyes revealed and unhidden. A fire he would feed with his own hands, running his fingers across that stubble-shadowed jaw. Ghosting across that chiseled neck, encircling the nape and digging into the dark mystery of his long hair. 

Lascelles’ hands moved across his own chest. One moved downward, scrabbling with the layers to find the hot pillar of his cock which grew beneath his touch. He moved against the soft skin of his hand, his palm applying sweet pressure to the ridge and coaxing gasps from himself each time it caressed his frenulum. 

Childermass would shudder. He would look down, mesmerized by being able to finally take what he’d hungered for. He would gasp when Lascelles touched his cock. Lascelles’ heated grasp would make that arrogant spine melt. He could hear Childermass’ rough voice uttering blasphemies, praising Lascelles’ beauty, declaiming Lascelles' mastery of himself, and Captain Childs and of Norrell. How Norrell was nothing without Lascelles. That England would shake at his name one day. How Childermass longed to serve him. Wanted his body, and proclaimed him his match, his better. His superior. The dark man would grovel in his presence and beg to touch his tool. To worship his cock with his mouth. Would plead for him to spend in his face. 

Lascelles’ hand moved faster and harder. His other hand raked across his nipples, and moved down as well to cup his balls. He pushed his middle finger downward to knead his perineum, then circling his entrance. His breathing became laboured, he huffed rhythmically as pleasure built in him. 

Pressing his finger inside himself he imagined Childermass' face between his legs, that wide mouth moving with abandon, agile tongue active. Those eyes enraptured with the sight of him, captive to Lascelles alone. He imagined Childermass tearing off his own breeches desperate to impale Lascelles with his eager, leaking cock. He shoved another finger roughly into himself alongside the other, relishing the pull and the pain from the abrupt entry. 

And then Lascelles was coming, a low shuddering moan emerging from his mouth and deep in his chest. He pulled his hand away from his spurting cock to throw his arm across his face. He bit his sleeve and smothered the sound while still pumping fingers deep into his opening. He curled in on himself, rolling onto his side, nearly blacking out with the pleasure and the sensation rippling through his body. 

Some moments later he found himself panting, face down on the bedding, one hand still buried in his rear, the other dripping spend on the pillow and into his ear. He felt a great wet spot beneath his belly. His deflated cock dragged against the sheets as he wiggled around to try to find a more dignified position. His still engulfed fingers came free from his own body with a pop. 

Lascelles knew he should rise and clean himself. Find fresh underthings and pull them on. Perhaps rise and find his way back to the library or seek out a servant to recall Childermass from whatever nonsense the man was busying himself with. A delicate shiver crossed his body at the thought of the man's name. He knew that he should be thinking hard about the information shared by the Captain that morning. Beyond the words that had been spoken to what the man had betrayed about himself. His feelings and motivations for the actions he had taken. 

But Lascelles was in the aftermath of one of the best orgasms he’d had in...well, months. Certainly not years. His muscles were deliciously lax. His mind was floating and all the concerns that circled him day and night, pushing him forward to gain and to grasp, they all seemed hazy in this moment. A few moments more and he was snoring. 

Lascelles dreamed. 

All around was quiet and dim. He stood outside, walking. His booted feet cut through a layer of frozen snow, crunching with each step. His feet sliced through the soft powder below the surface easily, sinking him up to mid calf each time. In every direction, Lascelles could see trees, an infinity of green pine boughs weighted down with snow. They appeared ashen grey in the eerie unlight. 

He had no doubt about his path. Picking his way carefully along a wide avenue between endless branches. His breath huffed out, billowing in steamy clouds before him. Looking down at his raiments he wrinkled his nose delicately in displeasure. 

Beneath the great black cloak, lined with silver-grey wolf fur which kept him warm in the deep snow, an elaborate lacey collar floated atop a blood red doublet. His nether parts were distorted by enormous blowsy breeches. He couldn’t squabble about the quality, each garment was clearly of the best materials: doublet and breeches embroidered in black and gold with incredible detail. He saw now the repeating motif of feathers. 

Black feathers limned in heavy knotted thread, spangled with beads of gleaming jet and glittering obsidian. 

A step took him close to a tree branch which brushed against him. It released its heavy burden of snow and snapped upwards, crashing into a line of other branches similarly sunken. These dropped their snow as well, then hurtled upwards. The snow fallen below triggering lower branches to do the same. Long irregular branches on either side touched its neighbors and began a chain reaction. 

Lascelles was covered in powdery snow and shards of ice. His face burned with the cold. He coughed and sneezed with the flutter of the white stuff into his nose and mouth.

He backed away involuntarily and collided with a tree on the other side of the way he had been traversing. It was a smaller tree which shook it in its entirety, waking the sleeping trees surrounding it. Soon the crashing and falling was happening all around Lascelles. A pounding avalanche of frost and snow. 

Hunching over, Lascelles covered his head with his arms. Visibility was nil. He attempted to run, ineffectually, his feet bogged down by the snow and his path uncertain. 

He slammed into the tall clean bole of a tree trunk. A massive oak stood in the midst of this broad pine forest. Lascelles clung to it, relishing the solid feel of the rough bark despite the distinct feeling he got of having bruised himself in the collision. He felt blood trickle down his cheek where it had been rasped. 

He heard a sound. Low at first beneath the explosive sounds of the snow falling all around him. Familiar yet he was unsure as to its source.

Then he recognized the caw of a raven. 

Leaning back, Lascelles tilted his head slowly to look upwards. Myriad branches radiated from the stem. Drab lifeless leaves clung to twigs and branches, strangely untouched by the snow that coated all else in this forest. Their yellow brown hues interrupted the earthen black of the tree’s bark and the vivid blue black of the night sky. The occasional twinkle of a star hinting at the luminous eternity above them. 

Lascelles saw something in the night staring back at him.

An inquisitive brown eye peered down at him between leaves. A sloping stygian brow curved down to a wicked black beak. Wings rustled and opened. The raven was massive, and close. Head cocked, it stared into him. 

Lascelles saw a human intelligence in its eye. Or perhaps something older than the crass human mind. He felt himself falling into that single mahogany eye, felt his layers stripped away as though he lay bare and naked upon the snow. A babe in arms. He felt his emotions flayed, his innermost thoughts dissected like muscle from bone. 

All his secrets, all his ambitions and desires passed before his eyes, as in a shadow play. He grew inflamed by each feeling as it passed. Saw himself at the side of Norrell as he flattened an army on the battlefield with the ring of a bell; he felt the rush of adrenaline. Saw himself speaking before Parliament, accepting the role of Prime Minister; he swelled with heady pride. Saw himself entangled and penetrated by the dark and light beauty of Childermass’ naked body; he flushed with wanton lust, blood pooling low in his body and pounding with each heart beat. 

The dark eye seemed to grow. It came nearer, nearer. Then it pulled back and Lascelles saw that it was just one of many. Each branch blossomed into dark feathers and claws. Beaks opened and cawing began. Legion pair of wings opened and began to flap. Slowly at first, then faster and louder, creating a cacophony of night hued noise. It battered his senses. Lascelles raised his hands once again, palms covering his ears. The great raven before him stayed still and silent through it all, simply looking at and through him.

A bird flew at Lascelles. He threw up his arms to protect his head and eyes, expecting the cruel bite of pain at any moment. But this bird landed on his shoulder. Its claws dug into the thick woolen fabric, and its beak grasped the wolf fur of Lascelles' cloak. It held tight as Lascelles bobbled and waved. It was much smaller than the king raven that continued to pierce Lascelles with its gaze, but it settled on his shoulder and faced back up at the raven filled night beside him. 

Lascelles felt a warm glow fill his chest. A settled feeling. He felt his feet on the ground and his breath calm. 

Then the great raven above them moved. It thrust its beak down into the center of Lascelles’ chest, cutting through the layers of fabric and muscle like butter. Lascelles was lanced by pain, not of a mortal fleshly type, but a deeper variety as though his soul had been pierced. 

The massive beak stilled and slowly retracted. It came free, holding something red. His heart. It dripped red, still pulsing, but also gleaming from within, as though it was carved from a great ruby. The raven held the throbbing stone heart before his eyes, turning it. The raven on his shoulder cawed. Lascelles saw that the stone heart was mottled with brown and white flaws. It was traced with labyrinthine trails. He saw movement within, and saw a writhing mass. Worms infested the chambers. They feasted, multiplying and dripping outward as he watched. His raven ally flapped its wings, batting Lascelles’ cheek. The breath of cold air was bracing. 

He felt a twisting in his chest. The great raven eye was upon him. He felt his limbs move. Not by his volition but in time with the twitching of the worms in the heart. He reached up and put his hand on the raven standing on his shoulder. 

It cawed and burbled in alarm. He smoothed its feathers with his hand, touching gently. It calmed. He picked it up and cradled it tenderly. It looked at him with curiosity, with one chocolate brown eye. 

He snapped its neck. 

Lascelles awoke to the sound of knocking on his door. 

“Mr Lascelles?” Childermass’ voice spoke.

“Ughhn, yes. What. What?” Lascelles responded eloquently. 

The door opened. Childermass stood against a dark backdrop of the wood-paneled hallway. Light streamed upon his face from Lascelles’ windows. The man’s hair was loose and free, his cheeks dappled cherry-pink from the kiss of cold air and exertion from caring for their steeds. A light of happiness and mischief gleamed in Childermass’ molten chocolate brown eye. As if listening for a sound from the hall, his head was turned in profile, facing just one eye inward. Lascelles’ breath caught in his throat. 

Childermass turned and fully faced inward as he said, “They’ve laid a table for us for the midday meal. Will you be joining us? Or have your wounds taken you to bed once more.” 

Lascelles swallowed on hearing Childermass say the words ‘taken you to bed.’ Parts of him throbbed. Parts of him ached. The memory from his dream still vivid, of light and sense fleeing the trusting bird’s eyes where it lay helpless in his hands. 

“I’ll be along,” Lascelles croaked.

Childermass' attention snagged on Lascelles. He entered the room to peer at the supine man's face. He touched Lascelles' cheek and his hand came away red.

"How did you hurt yourself, yet again?"

Lascelles heart raced. He had no answer. 


End file.
